


Amour Et Cafe

by markgatiss



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Blowjobs, F/M, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Threesome, college!lock, mentions of under age sex, teen!lock, thoughts of cheating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-13 01:30:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/818373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/markgatiss/pseuds/markgatiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg and Molly are happily dating when Sherlock and John begin to form new bonds. Sherlock is an asexual with a distaste for sexual encounters. John is beginning to feel the need to cheat. Sherlock, of course, has a plan for everything. [Mycroft: 26, Sherlock: 19, John: 21, Greg: 24, Molly: 19, Irene: 23, Victor: 25]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I will not lose you John Watson

**Author's Note:**

> amour et cafe; love and coffee.  
> I think i caught all my tense shifts but if you find one feel free to comment or inbox me if anything is wrong. I'm american so it's possibly I've written something incorrectly about British university culture. I tried to avoid anything i didn't know about exactly.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John brings up problems he's having to his friend Greg. Sherlock needless to say has a plan.  
> *rewrote/edited/added to as of 11/8/13  
> **easier to read, more continuity and more character bg. please reread.

      John sat beside Greg silently waiting for Sherlock and Molly to finish their classes for the day. The stone bench they were currently occupied was cold and the chill had begun to seep through his jeans reminding him not for the first time that autumn was beginning soon. The leaves were changing and the campus was continually finding itself surrounded by less green and more variations of red. John’s light green plaid shirt was covered by his blue cardigan and his blond hair seemed lighter in the crisp morning light. Greg sat in contrast a few inches away, his faded Metallica T-shit hung loosely under a thick leather jacket, his dark brown hair swept back in a style reminiscent of a Greaser. He took a slender, metal case out of his faded black skinny jeans, lighting up habitually before leaning backwards to rest his weight on his hands. John snarled his nose in fake disgust before shaking his head with a lighthearted smile. They sat there for a moment, staring out at the students lingering between the university buildings and the plaza.

      The two boys were seated outside the University’s medical building, one that John frequented due to his interest in medicine, but that Greg, a police academy hopeful, was not. Greg had visited the building a few times but had always left after a few minutes claiming he needed a smoke break or that it was just too clean inside. John guessed it had more to do with his own confidence than the people inside. Greg played up his bad boy persona but it seemed obvious to John that he was trying to hide his sensitive nature. Maybe it wasn’t obvious to other people; he and Greg had been mates for a while now. He remembered the times before Greg, scowling at Molly Hooper as she pranced behind Sherlock Holmes, her unrequited love not so obvious to him at first. John remembered feeling angry, and discomfited, ‘knowing’, or so he thought, that Sherlock would prefer a female counterpart to himself. He’d been so turned on to Sherlock’s careless attitude – he smoked, he shot up, he excelled in all subjects and he was a genius of Deductions. When they had first met Sherlock had barely been 17 arriving at University a year earlier than he should have. John wasn’t much older than Sherlock, he was only 20. He and Greg were both in their third year, although Greg was 23. Greg a working chap had been offered a position as an officer if he finished in the Police Academy. John had always thought Greg seemed like an Inspector, he was a good bloke, no matter what he dressed like.

      Greg had met John through Harry, an unfortunate situation at the time. He had brought Harry home after seeing her losing consciousness at a party. John had opened the door only to see his sister drenched in vomit, and leaning on a man dressed in worn out leather, a faded grey t-shirt, with a look of distress on his feature. Begrudgingly he had let the less intoxicated gentleman crash on their couch that night for saving his sister from alcohol poisoning. It hadn’t taken long to learn that Greg had a crush on Molly Hooper, the brown eye girl that followed Sherlock like a lost, but very attentive puppy. They had sat down for breakfast the next day both their gazes following the enigmatic pair through the cafeteria. At first Greg had smirked at John knowingly before teasing him, “Oh, you got the hots for the Hooper girl, eh, mate?” He was winking and it made John’s stomach churn. He shook his head, his cheeks already burning bright red. Greg made an aborted noise of shock before leaning close, “Her friend then?” John had nodded aware of the embarrassment coursing through him, he didn’t even know if he could trust this guy with this information. “Bloody hell, mate, it’s whatever. Stop looking so scared.” John’s head had snapped up in surprise, staring at Greg shit eating smile questioningly. “Let’s get them. Come one, I mean we could date them if we tried.”

      With the plan hatched between the two of them after several night of drinking, studying, and John helping Greg pass his harder classes they had approached the pair with stoic determination. John had taken pointers from Greg on dressing dark, more punk than he did normally. Greg had toned down his normal amount of black and thrown in shades of gray for a softer look. John didn’t know about Greg but when they finally stopped in front of their intended targets he felt his stomach drop out of his body and his heart stop as Sherlock lazily flicked his gaze over to them. John started to speak, to say the lines he had rehearsed in front of the mirror but Sherlock had cut them off albeit with an air of boredom.

      “You’re interested in her but you worry because you hide behind of a fake uncaring persona that Molly will turn you down. However Molly finds you extremely handsome and worries she will be much to plain for your tastes, hence the red lipstick she has started wearing when you two eat lunch on Tuesdays. You’re a great match, moving on to something much more interesting- John Watson. You’ve approached me after struggling with your sexuality by drinking with Greg, now you’re labeling yourself bisexual. I, myself, am openly gay and also attracted your dashing looks and personality.

      The silence that took over spoke volumes of the shock that Greg and John were currently experiencing. John slowly turned to Greg suddenly wondering if this was a good decision after all, the blood draining from Greg’s face told him he felt likewise. “If you’re quite done worrying over your dignity would you two gentlemen like to join us for lunch? We’re quite interested in your company even if it’s mostly so we can use the time to appreciate your collective attractiveness up close.” Greg and John had both stumbled into the chairs so fast they often wondered if that action might have been seen as desperate or pathetic by an outside viewer. It had been perfect for all four of them until Sherlock’s impromptu announcement at dinner one night, as John languidly rubbed his hand up and down Sherlock’s thighs. He had loudly announced to the group that he was in fact a romantic asexual but that he was sex repulsed and that the general population’s desires baffled him. John had released him as if burned. That night had repercussions that John was still dealing with.

He pulled himself out of his memories returning his attention to Greg who was now lighting up a second cigarette. “Those things are going to kill you Greg.” He sat up straighter his eyes alert, watching the student around them, all while tapping his thigh distractedly before glancing at Greg and then the Science building’s swinging doors before snatching Greg’s cigarette and taking a deep drag. He gave it back quickly, guilt playing across his features. Greg raised an eyebrow questioningly, “Uh, something up mate? You seem a bit … wired.” John turned towards him, his eyes wide in a way that reminded Greg of a caged animal, “I-I think I’m going to cheat on Sherlock.” Greg nearly choked on his inhale, coughing for a few seconds, “W-What?? You! Captain of the do-gooders? What the fuck Watson?”

John had the decency to look down, his face red with shame. “Look, it’s not that I want to Greg, I just, I mean, I need a good fuck. Can’t you understand that…? I don’t know. It’s like we’re in love, and we are –in love, you know- but I need sex, I said I didn’t but I do.” He slumped his shoulders in defeat, placing his head in his hands, “There I said it; I just needed to say it out loud.” Greg leaned in, not yet speaking but comfortingly placing his hand on John’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. “I’m scared to death I’ll cheat on him and not be able to stop myself.”

Greg knew better than to laugh but a small chuckle still escaped his lips, “Mate, just talk to Sherlock, he’s going to deduce it the minute he sees you. Plus, you know just because _he’s_ asexual, doesn’t mean he can keep you from ever getting the dick again.” John groaned loudly, raising his head up to look at Greg, “I know, I just, shite. When did I get so pathetic? I mean, I wouldn’t…I swear I wouldn’t cheat. I’m just going to man up and tell him I’m suffering.” His voice wavered slightly but the defiance that seeped into it kept it from cracking.

“Suffering from what, John?” Sherlock’s sultry voice sounded from behind them causing John to tense up immediately. Greg jumped a slightly, looking behind them quickly; Molly and Sherlock were standing behind them, Sherlock looking disengaged from the situation and Molly, slightly anxious. He looked at her searching for an answer to their sudden appearance but she averted her eyes. “We got out of lab early,” she spoke softly; “We were on our way back here from the library. Sorry for sneaking up on you Gregory.” She gracefully made her way to his side; her outfit consisted of light tan pants, a floral blouse, and a pale green ribbon holding up her soft brown hair. Nuzzling his ear apologetically she whispered, “Sherlock suspected John would confess. You know him, never surprised…” She gave him a quick peck on the cheek before settling onto his lap and returning her attention to the John and Sherlock.

Greg grimaced but looked at them as well aware that the boys were reaching a standstill, staring into each other’s eyes until ones resolve broke. Sherlock’s collar was popped up against the wind, his neck shielded with a light blue scarf John had bought for his birthday. He felt bad suddenly, a knot growing in the pit of his stomach, John was a good guy, and Sherlock was too brilliant not to know of John’s desires. John broke first, “Sherlock, I want to talk to you.” Sherlock stood, waiting for John to continue, aware of the growing frustration blossoming on his face. “Alone, Sherlock.” John’s voice was lower, less benevolent. Sherlock merely brushed him off flippantly, “No point in moving from this area. You’ve already told Greg, I’ve already discussed the specifics with Molly as we’ve been looking for a solution to remedy this problem” He held John’s glare returning his own with an intensity that Greg couldn’t quite read, irritation? jealousy?

“SHERLOCK! Geez, isn’t anything private with you!” John spluttered the words out while Sherlock rolled his eyes venomously, “Obviously not.” He flicked his gaze towards Greg long enough to imply that John had already broken the aforementioned rule. John grinds his teeth together, his jaw set with such determination and angry that the next words sound like a battle cry as he spits them out, “Fine.” A half a beat passes, “Are you mad at me? Are you going to break up with me?”

“Why would I?” The emotion between this changes quickly enough to give their spectators whiplash. Sherlock taking on a comforting air while John submissively stares at the ground, his courage wrought from anger, dissipating. “I thought about cheating on your Sherlock… That makes me a terrible boyfriend – An _unworthy_ boyfriend.” John winced as he finished the statement. “John, I knew when you sat down at my table for the first time that within six months you would think of committing infidelity and within eight you would. I entered this relationship knowingly; I admit I revealed my lack of desire at a less than opportune time, but I knew you were making passes and I couldn’t bear to disappoint you later.” He took a deep breath, and Greg found himself surprised by the sheer amount of words that Sherlock was speaking without being bribed, “I have decided rather than lose you, and I will not lose you John Watson, I do love you in many ways, _if not all the ways I am capable of_. Therefore I have a solution to our dilemma.”

Greg couldn’t help but jerk his head towards Molly, who smiled weakly in response to his surprise. It made him feel uneasy. Sherlock’s solutions were always angst ridden plots that involved suffering, mostly his own suffering. John spoke, his voice less strained but still not confident, “Then What, Sherlock? What will we do?” Sherlock stepped forward, his long graceful fingers resting against John’s cheek, “If you still love me, then stay with me but if you do not … Tell me now?” John’s head snapped up, a look of exasperation and defiance written across his eyes, “Are you kidding me? Of course I love you. I just-I’m just…” He apologetically looked at Molly before finishing his thought, “I just need to get laid, okay?” His voice had dropped to a low whisper, unable to bring himself to talk any louder. Sherlock grinned, his mischievous smile nearly reaching both sides of his face, “Good, I have someone for you to meet. Someone to help us both.”

Greg let out a bark of disbelief drawing both their attentions, “Jesus, Sherlock, are you saying you and John are going to have an open relationship!” He makes note of the way John’s jaw is still slack with surprise are he stares at Sherlock’s sharp profile unable to comprehend his offer. Sherlock takes the moment of silence to launch into an explanation, “It is beneficial to both parties. I will still maintain my status as John’s boyfriend and he will be able to quench his insufferable need for sexual activity. His voice huffs a bit at the end, showing his discontentment with John’s libido. “Honestly, this situation is already boring and overly complicated. Let me introduce you to my friend, if you dislike that option then you can choose another. All I ask is that I make 50% of the decision if you decide to choose your own as they will be a part of _our_ relationship.”

John finds his voice slowly, speaking up before Sherlock can keep talking, “Sherlock Holmes, you are the most understanding man I have ever met in my life. Will you just go ahead and marry me?” Sherlock grins but scoffs, “As if I would be your housewife Three Continents Watson.” Greg and Molly found themselves snickering as the dark mood finally lifts, and John lets out a frustrated sigh, “I swear I didn’t sleep with those girls on Christmas Break! That one wasn’t even American! I’m not lying!”

Sherlock takes a seat on the stone bench next to the other couple waiting for John to sit beside him before curling up into his side. The group ignores the crowd that seems to have gotten larger and closer to them at the sounds of raised voices. “I know John… Sometimes I Just want to be reminded.” The change of pace reminds John that while Sherlock appears to be a logical robot 80% of the time he does suffer sensitivity especially when he suspects John isn’t fully satisfied with him. John gently hugs Sherlock to him murmuring in his ear softly, “I would rather die a sexless pathetic old man than ever lose you. You know that right, S’lock?” A nuzzle of acknowledge eggs him on, “I’m not going to sleep with anyone you’re not into. Just because we’re in an open relationship, it doesn’t mean you’re not my number one.” He ruffles Sherlock’s curls cooing softly before Greg interrupts their display with a cough.

“Well, mate, if you two lovebirds are done over there, me and m’lady,” Greg says with a smile, gripping Molly tight, his tan arms wrapped around her small waist, a giggle escaping her in response, “want to check out that new coffee place, love something another…” Sherlock speaks up, his voice muffled by John’s cardigan, “Amour et Café, you twat. It’s French – and why on earth do you want to go there?” Sherlock peers out from John’s grip, trying to make eye contact with Molly who refuses to look at him. John and Greg look to each other suddenly suspicious.

“Is there a reason you wanted go there, Mols?” He tone is dripping with fake sweetness, an inquisitive tone underneath it. She blushes extravagantly but shakes her head no; the look on Sherlock’s face though, says more than enough for John to feel highly discomfited by this new café.


	2. Chapter Two: Enter Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> excerpt; Sherlock, John, Molly and Greg visit the new cafe near campus. Is this coincidence or a planned. John intends to find out.

Outside the café had seemed like any other shop along the busy strip, the only distinguishing feature a dark red door which sported what appeared to be a handmade sign carved from wood which read ‘Amour Et Café’ in scripted handwriting. Two windows faced the street but were covered with a dark red material, soft ambient lights strung across them. The entrance made John feel warm, and invited, and he could only hope the coffee was as breathtaking. If the outside left John in wonder, the inside took his breath away. The interior was dark, the only light inside was streaming in through the cracks in the window curtains. Tables of Mahogany and Cedar were already filled with satisfied customers, many John noticed, sighing into their drinks with deep sighs of pleasure. The wallpaper that graced the walls was a delicate pattern, one with simple flourishes, a white pattern on top of a back paper. Book shelves lined the walls instead of images, and as john perused the titles quickly, several classics as well as newer literature adorned the shelves. Small lamps lit the back corners where quiet customers were reading as they sipped their liquids.

An alcove was present a few feet away from the main entrance. It held a few small unoccupied benches, which faced the main lobby and the majority of customers while allowing them to keep themselves separate from them. Sherlock’s scowl seemed to increase the moment they entered; he grabbed John’s jacket after spotting the seats, quite literally, dragging John to the available benches. He made an aborted noise in his throat of discontentment before acknowledging silently that it would do no good. The light seemed brighter in this room, allowing him to see the redness Sherlock’s cheeks had taken on. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at Sherlock’s sudden attitude, he focused instead on the chalkboard menu that was written in a flourished print. It read, in a very neat and precise handwriting, that not only was the coffee available in several mouthwatering combinations but that desserts were available as well. His mouth watered at the few he could make out- Banana Nut Bread, Pecan Pie, Chocolate Cherries. Sherlock sat to his right, a permanent pout transfixed over his features, while the other two sat to his left. Molly looked around curiously; a faint anxiety tinged her features, “Where do you think we go to order?”

“Don’t worry about moving, just tell me.” A voice sounded from behind them in a less lighted area. Each person jumped slightly at the mans sudden appearance with the exception of Sherlock who had most likely deduced his proximity earlier. A tall, slightly filled out man stepped into the light, his face dusted with freckles and his eyes a bright blue, which contrasted beautifully with the red curls that threatened to fall from their swept over place. His lips seemed to hold a joke that they, as a group, had yet to get. He wore a dark sweater vest over a plain white button up, the sleeves rolled up around his forearms. John took note of the scar on his solidly built arm before continuing. The man’s collar was completely closed save for the top button and his shirt was tucked into his faded gray slacks. His feet were hidden by the table in front of John but he fancied it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to imagine expensive dress shoes adorned them. The man was still smirking, eyebrow raised inquisitively, as he waited for their orders, a pad and pen held in his long, thin fingers. Molly looked down at the floor, embarrassed, her hand covering her mouth as she tried to contain the squeak of fright that had already escaped her. Sherlock, if anything, sank lower into his sulk refusing to look towards the waiter. Greg, much like John, was staring at him in surprise. Sherlock’s voice rang out first, deep and menacing. “As if you don’t already know what they want.”

He was staring up at the waiter now, with cold blue eyes, his arms crossed tightly, his hands gripping his biceps with such force that John instantly felt worry for his circulation. He placed a gentle hand on Sherlock’s back, rubbing small circles in the center. He could feel the intensity of his grip lessen slightly but his eyes never moved or softened. The other man let out an amused chuckle, moving his hands as he spoke, “Mmm, as if I don’t know why you are here, little brother, another romantic experiment I assume?” A collective gasp rang out among them drowning out the last part of his statement. He nearly looked taken aback at their shock, a slight confusion running across his features. The man obviously assumed their relation was common knowledge. Sherlock’s features went pale, the blood draining out of his face at Mycroft’s words.

“Y-You have a brother, Sherlock??” John spluttered his words out inarticulately. Sherlock had the decency to look admonished at his stricken tone of betrayal. Sherlock broke his staring contest with his brother to stare down at the table in earnest. “I hadn’t meant it as a secret. I am sorry John. I never felt the information was crucial for you to know. It isn’t as if I speak to the lard.” John could feel the tension and anger welling up in the air. The electrified feeling kept the rest of the group quiet although John could have sworn he heard the Barista tut at Sherlock’s words. He turned towards the older man, shock still coursing through his body as he put on his best smile and reached out his hand, “I’m sorry to meet like this. I’m John, John Watson. Sherlock’s…” He paused wondering if Sherlock would want the information known to his apparently estranged brother. Sherlock spoke suddenly with great force, “Boyfriend.” The Barista’s eyebrows rose even higher, nearly disappearing into his hair. He shot Sherlock a somewhat angry glare, “Ah, well, you are full of surprises, Sherlock.”

Mycroft turned his full attention on John, a full, welcoming smile plastered across his features. It took John a minute to register Mycroft was offering his hand as he got lost in his lightly freckled cheeks and blue eyes. As they shook hands politely the man spoke startling John out of his reverie, “I’m Mycroft Holmes. The oldest and most intelligent son of the Holmes family.” John stepped back quickly, his expression pained, he turned instantly focusing on Sherlock’s posture. He knew the importance Sherlock placed on his intelligence. Insults like that made Sherlock furious and John had no intention of seemingly agreeing with the enemy by continuing the handshake. Mycroft smirked at the action, taking his hand back but said nothing. Sherlock stared down at the coffee table, his thumbnail picking at a chip in its surface. “It’s fine John. He is smarter. However, he is also fatter and lazier. Those two traits outweigh his genius.” A smirk graced his mouth as he finished, a small victory had been claimed in Sherlock’s eyes. Mycroft opened his mouth to retort but found himself cut off by John’s loud cough.

“I’d like black coffee please Mycroft.” The older man nodded, his lips drawn into a fine line. His voice was calm and even when he began to speak again, “I’ll give you all free drinks if you let me guess what you like.” Sherlock rolled his eyes muttering, ‘Show Off’, under his breath but Mycroft only smiled flippantly in return before closing his note pad. The group collectively looked to one another for a decision. Greg spoke first, after listening to Molly’s reasoning why they should let him try if only for free coffee, “That sounds good mate. Thanks.” Mycroft gave the group a curt nod avoiding Sherlock’s sulking figure before walking away. They looked at one another, with the exception of Sherlock who kept his eyes downcast, for several minutes before the tension was broken. “You like him, don’t you?”

Sherlock’s voice was low and calm but John still found himself fearful. His boyfriend was a jealous man and thinking about how attractive his brother was when Sherlock could easily deduce his thoughts was a terrible idea. His answer was careful, “He seems like an alright bloke.” The air felt thick as John tried to calmly catch his breath; he feared his anxiety would cause him to begin hyperventilating. Molly and Greg excused themselves as the couple in front of them became silent, they busied themselves near the dessert case. Sherlock ignored their comments instead turning towards John. He leaned into John’s ear, his even breathing causing John’s heart to skip every so often. John felt surprised he could hear Sherlock’s words over the pounding blood through his ears. “I can read you, John. You’re body – you wanted him.” He felt hot underneath his collar, tugging at it nervously, “I really wasn’t thinking about him Sherlock…” His voice sounded small even to himself but he found the edge of malice in Sherlock’s voice made his groin warm with desire. His boyfriend made a noise of irritation before leaning back in his chair. “I see Molly was correct in her assumption that you’re Holmesexual.”

John started to ask for explanation of what Sherlock meant but found his boyfriend cutting him off, “You’re free to pursue him, if you like.” He found his mouth dropped open slightly in surprise. Sherlock Holmes was giving him permission to fuck his brother? He wondered briefly if his hormone infested mind had merely imagined such a statement but he kept quiet as Mycroft returned, their drinks held expertly on a neatly arranged platter complete with beautiful handmade ceramic mugs. He gave out the drinks to each of them – Sherlock’s held extra whip cream on top and John wondered if Sherlock actually liked whipped cream or if this was a test of Sherlock’s apparently short fuse today. He found himself slightly surprised and amused to find a steaming slice of apple pie served out to him. “On the house,” Mycroft murmured as Sherlock took a large drink of his coffee making more noise than necessary. John glared at his childish antics breaking his eye contact with Mycroft which resulted in an immediately cheered up Sherlock who quickly quieted.

They each tasted their drinks while Mycroft waited, watching them each with a winning smile, presumably to make sure they enjoyed their drinks. They each took turns tasting their drinks before letting out a moan of satisfaction. John stared at his coffee as if it had sprouted arms and legs. It was unbelievably good. Sherlock, expertly following his train of thought as usual, commented, “He works with the government normally, this is his pastime. It helps him relax.” Mycroft neither agreed nor disagreed choosing instead to address the group with an air of satisfaction, “I take it you enjoyed your drinks?” Greg nodded furiously, his head still buried in his oversized tea cup. The light reflected off of his salt and pepper hair causing John to smile inwardly think about the many times they had reminded him that he would be a silver fox by thirty. Molly, her drink now sitting gingerly on the table, smiled in response before blushing bright red and giggling under Mycroft’s scrutiny, softly saying, “Gosh, I really liked it Mycroft.” Even Sherlock gave his brother a curt nod of approval as he licked the last of the whip cream from the drink.

John suddenly felt singled out as Mycroft stared at him, his smirk shifting into a predatory smirk, his long thing fingers brushing against the table as he waited. He attempted to give him a disarming a smile, “It’s really great.” A faint blush covered John’s cheeks, but Mycroft seemed satisfied turning away to tend to other customers as the group refocused their attention on one another.  “If I could make coffee like this, I’d never leave my house, I swear to God, mate.” Greg’s words came out fast and in between sips. They nodded in unison, agreeing and sympathizing with the statement. Sherlock snorted, “Yes, well, he wasn’t always so good. I remember him, very clearly, giving me food poisoning as a child.” John laughed into his cup, choking slightly, before hastily trying to hide it under a fake cough. Even when Sherlock was divulging information about his childhood purposely John found it safer not to laugh, he could be touchy about the subject. Sherlock’s eye roll told him his attempt wasn’t believable. “He left his number underneath your dessert, John. You better get it before we leave.”

He stared at Sherlock incredulously, “You’re joking – You cannot be serious. You want me to go after your own brother.” John eyed his dessert looking for evidence of the planted phone number. He felt his stomach tighten as he noted the barely visible papers edge sticking out from underneath the saucer. He gently pulled it out admiring the beautiful script on it. His eyes shot back up to Sherlock who looked as though he was uninterested. “If anything this works better than the friends I had in mind.” He gave Molly a look as though he was praising her matchmaking skills, “Mycroft will not treat you badly, he finds you attractive and he can obviously deduce the current situation.” He finished the last of his drink with a small smirk, “You should call him later tonight. I think it’d work out well.”

John found himself feeling uninformed. He looked between Molly and Sherlock’s shared glances before finally caving to his suspicions. “Molly did you set this up?” Her face blushed immediately as she stammered out a nervous reply, “I just- I just thought, Mycroft sounded a lot like Sherlock, except he was more romantic and,  *ahem* sexually inclined…” She dropped her gaze unable to look at John anymore, “I just wanted you to be happy. Everyone Sherlock suggested was someone he didn’t care for particularly. I knew it wouldn’t last before Sherlock…” She apologetically looked at Sherlock, “ruined it.” He found himself leaning back in his chair, her words weighing down on him. “Oh…” Her eyes snapped up as she began to apologize, “Oh God John, I’m so sorry. I just wanted to help.” Greg reached over comfortingly squeezing her arm in support. John didn’t feel wronged or even unhappy with her though.

“It’s actually alright Molly. I mean, thank you for trying. I just don’t think I would feel right dating Sherlock’s brother…” He reached over holding Sherlock’s hand reassuringly. “I think one Holmes is enough for me.” He let go a few moments later continuing to shovel his dessert down, his mind on autopilot as the group conversed without him. He needed time to think, to sit at home and wonder what had happened to him today. It was a complete turnaround from think he might slip up to now being offered a chance to date his boyfriends brother. They left the café quietly not bothering to Mycroft goodbye. John felt his stomach flip nervously as he glanced back catching Mycroft’s all-knowing gaze on his back as he left.


	3. Time for a party?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is struggling with his feelings toward Sherlock and his attractions towards his brother.

It really shouldn’t have bothered him that Sherlock’s brother had slipped him a phone number, especially with Sherlock’s blessing, but John found no emotion other than nausea deep within his gut. Mycroft – that was his name right? Mycroft’s blue-green eyes had flecks of yellow and brown throughout them, and his pale skin contrasted beautiful to his red hair. If John had been single, he would have jumped at a chance with this new specimen but Sherlock’s sulking face reentered his mind every time he thought of Mycroft. John lay, bareback, on top of his duvet. The cool fabric contrasted sharply against the heat of his skin, a god given distraction from his traitorous cock which was currently perking up at any chance of action, masturbatory or otherwise. The thought of Mycroft was slowly eating his subconscious alive. That ginger haired beauty was the epitome of everything John desired in his female companions; smart, beautiful, pale, tall, gorgeous light green eyes, and a smile to kill for. Rolling over with an irritated groan, he laid face down, shoving his face deep into his pillow. He breathed in laboriously, attempting to calm his bodies unfortunate reactions to his fantasties. He would just have to train his traitorous body to lower its libido, that had to be his only alternative. To go after Mycroft, his own boyfriends brother, there was no way he could betray Sherlock’s trust like that, especially with his own kin. John could just imagine the family dinners; ‘Who’s this boys?’, ‘Oh, that’s just our fuck toy John. We share him’.

Rolling his eyes, frustrated and semi-aroused, he reminded himself not for the first time Sherlock had offered him this path. It wasn’t as if he had reached these conclusions on his own. If anything, Sherlock had led him to this cross road with the intention of crucifying him. Unhappily he mulled over the idea that Sherlock had merely offered the deal to him because he feared his boyfriend wouldn’t stay faithful. That hurt John more than anything else. He wanted to be faithful, loyal, and loving to Sherlock. He was simply going to have to throw Mycroft’s number away and see the other options Sherlock had lined up for him; if he prayed hard enough maybe one of them would be attractive enough for him to get a hard-on. Shifting in the bed in order to make himself more comfortable in his gloomy haze he reminisced about his initial, and currently ongoing, attraction to Sherlock and found himself irritated that his boyfriend could never truly return the sentiment. It was too plebeian for Sherlock to appreciate aesthetic beauty enough to see the pleasure behind sex. Or at least that’s what he felt Sherlock was saying to him. He constantly reminded John that he wasn’t sex-repulsed, simply uninterested in the matter. To John that translated into I like sex but not with you. He knew it had to be true; Sherlock was too knowledgeable about certain things to be a virgin, but John could never pull the details of his boyfriends past up with him finding a clever way to evade.

John pulled himself back on to his side and took a long hard look at his body; a few years in rugby and an intense diet plan had caused him to fill out. He had developed abs, protruding hip bones, a defined collarbone that dipped dramatically before connecting to his thick strong shoulders. It didn’t take much to realize that girls and boys alike were noticing him, more so than before at least. He didn’t know if it was his new body or new boyfriend that was catching their attention but he sometimes fantasized that it was both. Considering their odd relationship he wondered if their ‘fans’ were wondering how to join their relationship in some way. As a couple he and Sherlock were quiet, mysterious, and always involved in grim conversations about forensics, murder, and decaying bodies. It was a wonder anyone looked at them at all after they heard their interests.

Heaving another sigh of frustration he resigned himself to a long night with his thoughts when a noise sounded from outside his window. He looked over in disbelief his night vision allowing him to easily see out on his balcony. He knew that sound instantly; someone was throwing rocks at his window. Rising out of bed cautiously he walked towards the window. There was no way Sherlock would be at his flat this late, not with his parents keeping him under lock and key for his last experiment. Only Sherlock could set the schools lab to fire after hours, he thought. He padded across the cold cement floor until he could peer downwards from his second story window onto the lawn. He was both surprised and elated to see Greg standing sheepishly outside his window, hand in pocket as he surveyed the freshly cut dormitory yard for another rock. John slide his balconies glass door open slightly, the breeze chilling his unprotected skin, “Oi! What are you doing down there Greg?”

Greg jerked his gaze upwards a small grin breaking out on his face, “There’s a party. Come on mate!” Inwardly John groaned knowing he should go to get his mind off of things but his inner sloth was screaming that this was much too much effort at nearly midnight. Nearly declining he caved as Greg put his hands together in a pleading gesture, “Fine, give me five.” The other boy waved him on before taking a seat on a nearby stone monument documenting the dorms latest donors and lighting a cigarette. John returned to his bed, sliding off his pants and throwing them on top of his duvet. He shuffled towards his closet, closing the door to his room before flipping on his light, attempting to be courtesy of his sleeping flat mates. He glanced around at his mundane clothing attempting to find something worth wearing to the party. His eyes flickered over his casual wear, neatly organized into one section.

John grabbed the first comfortable trousers he saw, black skinny jeans, jerking them on, hopping on one leg in order to pull them up. Standing in front of his mirror he inwardly debated what shirt would match best. Pulling a loose sweater over his head, the pale white fabric fitting nicely over his new and improved body, he checked himself over. The front dipped down slightly, showing his nick and jaw, while keeping him from looking to much like a prat. He grabbed his plain black ring, sliding it smoothing onto his ring finger. He didn’t care what his body wanted. He wasn’t going out without Sherlock’s bloody promise ring. The fact that Sherlock had even cared enough to buy him such a trivial, sentimental thing, said more to john than sweet nothings ever would. Perhaps his boyfriend wouldn’t sleep with him but at least Sherlock was entirely committed to their relationship.


	4. Mycroft's Weakness

Sherlock was staring at him from the doorway when Mycroft looked up from his textbook. He had come to realize Sherlock’s presence a few minutes ago but he felt the need to make his brother wait, just another way to prove he held the upper hand in their relationship. Mycroft had come home from University a few weeks ago on break; finishing up his fourth degree had taken up what little free time he had in between his government position and his coffee shop. He often wondered why at 26 he already had enough savings for retirement but reminded himself it was due mostly to his massive intellect and ability to manipulate those higher above him in the system. He had bargained for more free time, working from home, and only being burdened with cases that they couldn’t fix on their own. The job paid well enough he supposed; he was able to stay home and take care of his ailing mother as well as Sherlock.  He flicked his eyes up to meet his brothers gaze, the look in Sherlock’s eyes suddenly making him infinitely aware that their parents were currently halfway across the world on medical leave, and he was effectively trapped in his room, on his bed, in only his thin silk boxers. He slid his textbook down, covering his pants.

Mycroft felt hyper aware of his appearance, his stomach and legs far too visible for his comfort. He did his best to pull down the curtain of emotionlessness knowing Sherlock catch even his smallest hint of self-doubt and use it to manipulate their situation. His brother merely strolled in after being acknowledged, his hand tracing the wall, rubbing against the archaic wallpaper as he approached. He gait reminded Mycroft of a cat stalking its prey; clad on in a silk robe, he paused not far from Mycroft’s bed.

“One time you promised me that you would pay me a favor in my life, just one. Anything I asked for – no questions, no buts, just compliance. Are you still willing to hold up that promise?” Sherlock’s bright blue eyes were sharp in the dim lighting, the shadows falling across his sharp features; he might as well have held Mycroft at gunpoint. He felt uneasy. Sherlock was just like him, not as brilliant, but sharp, calculating, efficient, and determined. For that mere fact Mycroft feared his brother. Sherlock had no sense of boundaries; he could just as easily ask Mycroft to kill a man as take out the trash. He took a deep breathe steeling himself and gave a curt nod, “Yes,” paying his brother the smallest attention he could in such a state of undress. The robe barely covered him, loosely hanging off of his sharp jutting angles. His bare was shimmering under the low lights of Mycroft’s lamp. He had never put much stock in well-lit rooms, preferring ambience to visibility but right now their seemed to be much less ambience and much more tension in the air between them.

He could feel his body becoming aroused and he did his best not to show it. Sherlock was still gazing at him in a way that made him want to cover himself, but he dare not give his brother the satisfaction. Sherlock was walking towards him, faster now than before, gracefully sitting on the edge of Mycroft’s bed, the robe falling to pool around him now, the dark trail of hair leading down his abdomen was painfully visibly now and Mycroft did his best to ignore the details, aware of Sherlock’s purposeful teasing. “I said, YES, Sherlock. What do you want?” If his voice sounded tenser than normal; Sherlock didn’t mention it but Mycroft felt as though he was straining to sound normal. He cursed himself inwardly, Sherlock already knew, the slightest tell was enough for his brother, especially when Mycroft was covering his emotions so badly. Sherlock smirked now, crawling over onto his lap, his blanket falling off completely now. Mycroft, to his astonishment, looked down taking in his brother’s erect penis. His eyes flew back up as Sherlock flung the book previously hiding his own semi-erection to the floor, his bright blue eyes taking in Mycroft’s near nudity hungrily. “Mycroft, if you do what I say, I’ll reward you.”

Mycroft let out a slight whimper; he was caught between a rock and literal hard place. He had been attracted to Sherlock since they were young enough to be unaware of social taboos. He had always found Sherlock beautiful and Sherlock had always found his intelligence irresistibly. Mycroft had once awoken to his brother sucking on his cock wantonly explaining, in between mouthfuls, Mycroft had been deducing in his sleep and he couldn’t help himself. He needed him. He knew his attraction was wrong but if his brother was willing, did it matter? Of course since John Watson, he and his brother had parted ways an unspoken agreement not to cheat on John was easily understood by both parties. Mycroft tried a different approach trying to ignore Sherlock’s gentle rutting against his hips. “You’re asexual Sherlock. What are you doing?”

His brother made a resigned sound as he put his fingers in his mouth sucking them enthusiastically before reaching behind himself and beginning to finger his own arse greedily. “Asexual, not sex repulsed.” It was Mycroft’s turn to seem surprised, although he had assuredly known this since they were children, “Why would you tell John you wouldn’t fuck him?” He left the rest unsaid, _I know you love him and he only needs this for your relationship to be perfect? Why give it to me and not him?_ Sherlock rutted hard against him, breaking Mycroft’s hold on his hips as he leaned over and bit his ear harshly. Mycroft let out a pained groan that immediately turned into a whimper at Sherlock’s next words.

“I can’t tell him I’m turned on by intelligence. I can’t tell him my brothers the only person to ever make my cock hard. You’re the only person that understands me, My.” Mycroft blinked through his lust filled haze. It had been years since he and Sherlock participated in anything remotely sexual, especially since Sherlock met John Watson. He tried to find his voice again, “Do you want me to fuck you brother mine? Is that what you’re asking as your favor?”

Sherlock laughed, mid-thrust, his fingers scissoring his arse with force, a clear sound breaking through the midst of Mycroft’s befuddled thoughts. “No, nothing so tedious - although you will fuck me tonight, but you will do that because you want to Mycroft. No, I want you to go to Victor’s party tonight.” Mycroft’s eyes jerked up towards Sherlock’s, his cock nearly deflating. Sherlock, aware of his sudden lack of desire, grasped his cock giving it a few pumps quickly, “I know, I know he broke you heart, but John’s going with Greg, _Obviously_ , and I want you to fuck him tonight.” Mycroft watched as Sherlock took out his fingers and shoved them into Mycroft’s mouth chocking him slightly as he tried to concentrate on stopping his gag reflex. Mycroft should feel taken advantage of, molested perhaps, but the idea of Sherlock finger fucking his face had him straining so hard against his silk boxers that he wondered why he hadn’t approached Sherlock for sex earlier. He’d come to terms with their mutual attraction years ago, when Sherlock started waking him up every morning with a customary blow job. He’d never made better grades than that year.

Sherlock pulled his fingers out with a pop before hopping up farther on Mycroft’s hips, and sliding himself down on Mycroft straining erection, pulled through the opening on Mycroft’s silk boxers. Momentarily he found himself distracted by the fluids ruining the expensive fabric, but the moment Sherlock’s right arse wrapped around his cock he was surprised he could stay sitting upright. The spit filled hole slid down on his cock with trained precision; trust Sherlock to work out even the mechanics of sex, he thought. His brother began bouncing up and down on him, Sherlock’s own cock flopping up and down, slapping heavily against his stomach. Mycroft watched as Sherlock took himself in hand pumping himself while he fucked himself on Mycroft’s dick.

He wondered vaguely if he should be more proactive during this but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything but stare. Sherlock knew he had a hold over Mycroft that he could use to his advantage. He would do anything Sherlock asked, even kill an innocent man if it meant his brother would spend the night in his bed. Sherlock leaned forward, his forehead resting on Mycroft’s as he clenched his cheeks tightly around Mycroft’s cock, “God, fuck, you’re a goddamn lazy prick even in bed Mycroft.” He began to mouth at his brother’s neck, murmuring, “Oh fuck Mycroft, fuck, hmm, you fill me up so good.”

Mycroft felt a pride rising up in his chest at the knowledge that not only did Sherlock enjoying fucking him, in fact saw him as his only viable partner, but that his brother had also chosen him to fuck his boyfriend, John Watson, who was one of the most attractive men he’d ever seen. As their orgasms neared Sherlock removed himself from Mycroft’s dick, he wanked himself to a finish allowing the cum to drip down his fingers as he lifted his hand to his mouth licking up his mess. Mycroft looked at his brother pleadingly; suddenly scared he might be left unfinished. Sherlock grinned bending down to his knees and gesturing for Mycroft to stand up. He looked up grinning, as he took Mycroft’s cock in his mouth, and then forced his brother’s cock down his throat until he gagged, a smile on his face. Mycroft took this as an invitation, face fucking Sherlock as deeply as he could and without reserve. He wondered if a threesome could be in his future. His legs wobbled as he tried to dress afterwards, watching his now nude brother slip from the room as if he had never been there.


	5. Chapter 5

John walked through the house careful to avoid the creaks and noisy floorboards of the floor. His roommates were good guys; reliable, studious, boring guys. Slipping outside of the front door he mused that at one point in his life he had been the same, until of course he met Greg Lestrade – King of the Wild Side. The cool air on his face reminded him how close fall was and how little he had enjoyed the summer air. The season was growing shorter but he couldn’t find the energy to care now that school had started. Greg rose from his makeshift seat, slapping John on the back jovially. “I’m happy you were still awake, mate!” He stamped out his now finished cigarette on the sidewalk before continuing, “I didn’t want to drink alone!”

John rolled his eyes, taking in Greg’s baby blue “V” neck and dark denim jeans. His eyebrows knitted together in confusion; Greg never dressed up, and he especially didn’t favor pastels. “Where’s all your leather and chains at?” The boy lit up another fag, grinning mischievously, “Let’s just say where we are going, we need to look a little more posh.” Again, John stopped in his tracks, suddenly fearing something had replaced his comrade, “Are you sick or something? You don’t do posh?” Greg, paused in his fidgeting, kicking his shoe at the ground, “Yeah well I heard there’s a bloke that makes fine ass drinks at a prats house tonight.” John continued staring at Greg until he spoke up again attempting to defend himself, and his sanity, “And so what if I’m going to a posh party? Maybe I ought to start! Molly doesn’t seem very taken with this,” he gestured to himself, “anymore.” His voice lowered as he finished the last of his sentence, trailing off uncomfortably; turning away Greg began to walk again, at a faster pace this time.

John’s brain kicked back into gear sprinting up until he was walking beside him. Clasping Greg’s shoulder and forcing him to turn around, he noted the other boys eyes were still lowered. “Greg, did something happen?” Greg jerked his shoulder away, not unkindly, before taking another drag. His shoulders were tense and John found himself mirroring the tension in his own posture, he visibly attempted to make himself more relaxed and open. “She’s got better things to do than hang out with a dead beat like me. I,” He paused inhaling deeply as his voice quivered, “I don’t want to lose her because I dress like shite. I’m going to change.”

He wanted to respond, to tell him something comforting, but John couldn’t make the lie fall off of his tongue. Instead he settled for an arm squeeze before nicking one of Greg’s fags and lighting up as well. Taking in a deep puff, ignoring the burning in his lungs as he took more than he could handle, he looked at Greg encouragingly. “I’ll help, however I can. Just let me know.” Greg smiled in response, his appreciation apparent in his change posture.

“John, I just want to get shit-faced tonight. I need a breather from life.” Greg wasn’t staring at him anymore, walking once again towards their destination and John found himself enjoying the moment. He could understand the feeling, if anything he felt the same. Twisting his ring absentmindedly, aware of the thoughts that hadn’t left him today, he agreed to the plan. They should drink to forget, if only for tonight. “Let’s do it Greg.”

The house they arrived at was huge in comparison to John’s flat near the university. Whereas his was fitted with three bedrooms, a couple loos and decently sized kitchen and living area, this house completely destroyed his own image of luxury. He quickly estimate there were nearly fifty windows along the top floor alone. The three levels of the house were each the same size and adorned with mock relief sculptures; it was vaguely reminiscent of renaissance churches which the exception of it’s modern architecture. The more they peered at the ghastly house the less beautiful it became and the more oddly cliched it seemed. As if it was taking pieces of unrelated art styles and putting them into one place just because they could afford to. Forcing himself to focus on anything other than recalling his art history knowledge from college he entered the house through the massive oak doors. There were people every where and they were dressed up immaculately; ties, suits, pretty black dresses, and neatly pressed slacks. Of course there were people like Greg and him who had worn more casual outfits interspersed throughout but they were in the minority. John did his best not to notice how underdressed he felt. It was likely these kids went to private schools and he’d never see them again; what did it matter if they thought he looked silly if he got free alcohol out of the deal?

Greg spotted the alcohol before him, grabbing his arm and forcibly dragging him through the crowd to a large bar. He turned around with enough speed to give himself whiplash, his eyes bulging before hissing at John, “Holy FUCK, this house has a bar!” John let out a chuckle shaking him arm free of Greg’s grip. He quite liked his current jumper and didn’t want it to be stretched out before he could properly break it in. The bartender, a tall thin man with blonde curls grinned at them as they approached. John could tell immediately from his Armani watch that he was no simple bartender; if anything his designer button-up, a dark green and white tweed vest told John he was probably the host if anything. He neither cared or wanted to know their ages, assuming ignorance was best before asking them for their orders. Feeling emboldened by the anonymity the bartender was granting them he ordered a whiskey while Greg decided upon a rum and coke. Greg was grinning like a fool; they were both of age but to simply be handed drinks made them feel like they were finally adults to some extent.

“Are you from around here?” John’s gaze snapped up to meet the bartender who had spoken, surprised by the gentleness of it. He’d expected a rougher, deeper voice, but the man sounded kind and shy. John gave Greg a nod that he could go ahead and browse through the party without him.

“I’m from the other side of town actually. I go to uni over there.” He did his best to sound proud of his accomplishment and keep any feeling of shame over his public education deeply covered. Surprisingly the boy just shrugged, “Sounds tough. My dad went to a public school before he broke into the fashion business.” He moved closer to John, leaning on the counter but keeping a safe amount of distance between them. John found himself being pulled into the boys gravitational pull; he simply commanded John’s attention with his sad eyes. Taking a seat at the counter he looked around briefly making sure he wasn’t in the way of other customers before directing his attention back on the bartender.

“I’m sorry. I don’t think I’ve properly introduced myself.” He put his hand out across the counter, giving his friendliest smile. The boy was nice and he currently found himself happy to have found such agreeable company so quickly. The other man actually seemed to blush, rubbing his neck nervously.

“I’m Victor, but most of my friends call me Trevor these days. They think Victor’s too pretentious.” He said the words with a self deprecating tone but John could tell he wasn’t truly upset about the situation. John let the name roll on his tongue before grinning flirtatiously at Victor, “I don’t think it’s ‘pretentious’, but then again anyone as gorgeous as you could get away with murder, much less a fancy name.” Victor blushed, his cheeks beginning to turn pink slightly, “Oh, wow, you’re really smooth.” Turning away from John slightly the other boy hid his face with one hand, “I’m sorry. I’m just not used to being hit on. My last boyfriend thought I was an idiot so… we never really chatted much.”

John raised an eyebrow questioningly, “How’d it end then? Did he just dump you? Sounds like an ass.” Still red, but gaining his composure back Victor leaned over the counter his elbows holding up his torso as he whispered, “Actually,” he whispered with a shy grin, “his brother set me up with a friend; we got caught fucking in their family’s garden.” John felt his mouth fall open in surprise at the statement, “You did what?” Victor stood up a bit defensively, crossing his arms, “Well, to be fair it just kind of happened. I didn’t realize that prat actually cared for me. I’m assuming his brother did because he actually smiled at me when Mycroft found me and threw me out.”

His reaction was instantaneous; John choked on his drink nearly spitting it into Victor’s face. He was spluttering and suddenly feeling faint. MYCROFT. Oh my god, there can’t be any other Mycroft. Oh my god, Sherlock did this. John did his best straighten up his posture and wipe his mouth before coyly questioning Victor. “Oi. Sorry mate, I just, got a little choked up there. That kid sounds like a fucking dick. When was this. I hope it wasn’t recent.” John couldn’t help it, even without Sherlock’s gift of deduction he was beginning to sense a connection. Suddenly Mycroft finds his boyfriend cheating at the same time John finds himself needing a lover all while Sherlock is orchestrating a plan behind his back. He clenched his fist irritably. This had Sherlock written all over it. And to think, he’d ruined a perfectly sound relationship between Victor and Mycroft apparently.

Victor looked at him curiously before shrugging off his odd behavior, his senses probably dulled by the amount of alcohol John assumed he had taken in before the party ever kicked off. “It was a few days ago. Honestly, I guess I should have known it was a trick, but in the end it worked out for the best. I’m out of an unhealthy relationship and, well, maybe Myc-” He quit talking immediately, turning away from the counter and busying himself with the bottles on the other side. John tensed waiting for whomever was behind him to announce themselves.  

 


	6. Chapter 6

“One would think I took the liberty of cheating on him with the way he avoids me.” The words came out smoothly, the usual silkiness of his tone marred by the undercurrent of bitterness that John picked up on much too easily. Mycroft kept his gaze low, looking at the counter rather than Victor or John, taking one finger and rubbing it against the counter, “How unfortunate; this varnish will fade in a matter of years.” The blandness of Mycroft’s statement caused John to strain his ears harder, Surely, the bloke didn’t just go from his ex-lover to table varnish, no wonder Victor wanted out.

“Yeah, mate, they’ll have to fix that…” He grabbed his drink, taking a large gulp, and stood, readying to leave. Mycroft, as he got a full view of him, was wearing dark denim, fitted snugly along his tall, thin frame, and a light green shirt made of what John assumed was expensive material. He couldn’t tell for certain as his knowledge of fashion was nearly nil, but imagining Mycroft in hand me down clothing seemed unimaginable. His sleeves were rolled up to elbows and John found himself somewhat thrown by his lack of outer wear. Mycroft looked mysteriously younger and less imposing when left his suits at home.

“You’re staring.”

The words were low, the humor in them undeniable. “I was not.”

“So you were simply staring for 10.23 seconds without blinking because…?” He smirked, his eyebrow raised in a question; his blue eyes suddenly filled with mirth.

“I’ve got to go - alright. I’m here with Greg.” He avoided the question lamely not ready to speak to Mycroft after the bombshell of information Victor had left him with. John wanted to speak to Sherlock; to confirm whether all of these rumors were true. He didn’t feel like being close to another Holmes so soon, perhaps Mycroft was baiting him as well.

“Oh, I didn’t realize you were an item. I thought Miss Hooper and Mr Lestrade were currently dating.” He swiveled his stool from the counter, now facing John directly behind him. His legs were crossed at the ankles, his feet balancing on the bottom rung of the stools foundation, and his arms were currently crossed loosely in front of his chest, his fingers tapping a rhythm of sorts against his arms.

“W-We’re not! And you - you know it, Mycroft. And for gods sake, you’re barely 26, stop talking to us like you're our grandpa. His names Greg, her’s is Molly, and for god sake mine is /John/. Not Mr Watson - not Watson - just John!” He naturally struck a defensive position, his body tensed, and his brows wrinkled with distaste. He knew the sudden mood must have come from the alcohol, or his paranoia now that Victor had informed him of the situation. He clenched his fists tighter as he watched Mycroft’s smile grow bigger at his frustration.

“Apologies, I had no idea you would be so affected by a respectful title. Next time I shall call you something less polite.” Mycroft stood, moving forward to tower over John, his eyes pinpoints as they glared downwards. “I think if you stopped running from me we could have some fun...John.” The words were more sultry than John thought possible and his instincts reminded him to leave, unable to cope with the others mans personality. He loved the way he was being crowded and dominated in a sense; being talked down to, intimidated, controlled almost, by Mycroft’s blatantly impassive and unemotional words. Even the man's’ ‘offers’ made John feel as though he were an object to bought for a price.

“Goodbye, Mycroft.” He turned ignoring the feeling of Mycroft’s eyes on his back as he left to find Greg.

 

An hour into the part and five shots later John found himself seated underneath Greg who’d taken to sitting on his lap as if it were a throne, swaying dangerously from the alcohol as he quoted Shakespeare and told University stories to anyone that would listen. There was a group surrounding them now, bring them drinks and snacks, encouraging them to share, curious about John and Greg’s University stories. John had found out very early that the entirety of the party goers went to private, dirty wealthy, schools where the smallest action of rebellion would be frowned upon. John smiled at their enraptured gazes; Greg’s bad boy attitude charming them even through his current stupor. Every so often a brave woman would venture forward attempting to flirt with Greg but John made sure to shut them down with a quick mention of Molly Hooper. Fortunately they had all been deterred minus one girl, dressed in a classic black dress, her heels infinitely taller than John had thought possible.

“You know, boys… we could take this upstairs.” John shifted uncomfortably as her voice near his ear caused shivers to run down his spine. Greg suffered the same cold streak, suddenly sobering in the face of his temptress, “Look Miss-”

“Call me, Irene.” She grinned, her features resembling a fierce cat searching for its next prey.

“Look, Irene, it’s just - we’re both taken, and devoted.” Greg said warily, attempting to gain his bearing as the students around them began to clear out, away from the erotic scene. Irene leaned over John, her breasts rubbing against his already blushing face, cupping Greg’s cock, and slowly rubbing it into a minor erection.

Even tequila could not slow down Greg’s over active imagination - the heat boiling in Greg’s skin soaking down into John’s lap, causing his own arousal to stir up. Mortified John rose up clumsily knocking Greg off of him and onto the floor. He stumbled upstairs ignoring Greg’s call after him - he could deal with Irene on his own. There had to be a bathroom close, one that he could use to wank off this horrible erection. If he didn’t take care of this urge soon, he’d have a terrible case of horniness and a hangover on top of it. It had been days since he’d even touched his cock, afraid of which brother his traitorous mind might think of. John couldn’t stand the idea of imagining someone else other than Sherlock - the idea seemed traitorous to him.

He opened the first door he could find, letting out a loud breath of relief. The bathroom, gilded in what appeared to be a gold look-a-like, was fully furnished and much more spacious than his shared flat’s. Even now, John couldn’t fully appreciate anything, his mind completely frazzled, and his drunken thoughts completely centered around his own pleasure. He unzipped his trousers, the lock on the door, already forgotten. John took his erection in hand, as he glanced over the damage the pre-cum already beginning to soak through his pants had wrecked. He continued palming himself, his need for touch overwhelming his senses. If he could just wank himself off without imagining anyone else he would be able to wake up tomorrow without guilt.

-

It wasn’t that Mycroft was following John Watson, he just kept coincidentally appearing near him. Unsurprisingly both Greg and John had made an effort to fit in, though as he watched they had little need, their looks and personality working in their favor. He grinned deducing that John’s were in fact his own clothes whereas Greg’s were obviously new; bought for the occasion. The blonde’s attentions had been elsewhere the entire night, lost in his thoughts rather than the alcohol. Mycroft made sure to avoid being seen as he watched him. Choosing instead to make various small talk with others as he circled his prey.

Irene sickened him, an unsavoury bile rising in his throat as he watched her stalk the boys determinedly. She looked at them as though they were a meal, waiting to be devoured. He admonished himself for nearly interrupting her disgusting, if not immoral, molesting of the two males. Mycroft refused to feel his actions were similar. The boys were visible uncomfortable with her affections, attempting without success to fend her off. He bit his lips keeping himself from a wry smile as john attempted to tell her to piss off, reiterating they were taken by lovely men. Though he disagreed with part of the statement, he admitted even Irene should have seen their discontentment. John’s face had drained as she closed on him, his blood draining down into his cock, his erection straining against the tight red skinny jeans he wore.

Mycroft followed him after John, taking care to walk slowly and keep himself out of John’s sight. He wasn’t following John in order to corner him, not exactly, he corrected himself. He merely wanted to keep him out of harms way. Who knew what monsters might be in hiding at this party - his mind drifting back to Victor, the cheating scoundrel. The feeling of betrayal his him hard, reminding him of how little he was worth that a servant boy might best him in terms of his love life. The bathroom door was cracked, John’s apparent haste keeping him from remembering the little things. Wrestling between his cock and his logic, he suddenly fixated on one memory, a few soft words whispered into his ear. “You’re free to fuck him, just know he’s mine in mind and soul. I simply have no need for his body - I have you, don’t I?” Mycroft shut his eyes hard, his brothers promises and Victor’s betrayal gave him the courage to quietly open the door to the bathroom, slipping in and shutting it silently. He turned, locking the door, before turning his eyes falling on John Watson’s heaving body. John stood, unaware, his blood no doubt pumping in his ears, his forehead against the bathroom wall as he stroked himself furiously.

He felt a tightening in his groin at the sight, a sudden lust for the young man surging inside him. He stepped behind John, slipping on hand down to grasp his cock and another to grab his hair, jerking John’s head back, not allowing him to look anywhere other than the ceiling. John’s breathe quickened, his pulse skipped, and his alcohol infested mind tried hard to react, delaying his response by valuable seconds. Mycroft gave John a few experimental strokes, listening to the moan caught in John’s throat with pleasure. The aborted noises caught between pleasure and fear.

“Do you know who I am, John?” The words came out slow and deliberate, each syllable falling off of his tongue with emotion. He spoke softly, his lips dragging along John’s neck, licking it sensually.

“Oh, gods, what are you doing here.” John’s senses seemed to finally come back to him as he pulled his hands away from Mycroft’s shoulders and began trying to pry Mycroft’s right hand away from his already dripping cock. “Stop,” He slurred out, “I’m with Sherlock. This -- This isn’t right. I don’t even… I don’t even know you!” He breathed the words out heavily in between panting and moaning, his heart still racing. His pleas came to stop as Mycroft pumped his cock once more, John’s legs turning weak as he fell slightly. Mycroft held his weight up, supported him fully.

He chuckled into John’s blonde hair, his voice slightly exasperated at the words, “Sherlock came home today. He /asked/ me to fuck you. He told me you’d be here.” He pumped John once more, aware of how close he was to cumming. He wrapped his fingers around the base of John’s cock in a makeshift ring, squeezing tightly to keep John’s orgasm at bay. “Isn’t that the damndest thing? I wouldn’t have known you were here - I wouldn’t be trying to fuck you - if Sherlock hasn’t told me too.”

“Sherlock,” John breathed heavily, his words stuttering between moans, “seems to keep his hands dirty lately.” He didn’t dare say Victor’s name, but the implications were loud.

“I can text him if you like? If you need more proof, or permission, or whatever it is that’s holding you back John.” He sucks the boys earlobe as he mumbles. “It’s obvious you like me.” John leaned back against Mycroft his mind becoming numb with endorphins as he tried to remember why he didn't want this? He did /like/ Mycroft, found him bloody beautiful with those god damn freckles and blue eyes. "Okay." The words were barely uttered but to both men they sounded like a shot gun, each syllable cracking in Mycroft's ears. 

Mycroft could tell so many things about John just from this brief encounter; he had a danger kink, he loved submission, he loved Sherlock, he was unimaginably horny from his months of abstinence, and he was firmly attracted to Mycroft. He lowered his hand from John's hair slowly, in case he tried to escape, letting John's head go back to it's original position, his mouth hanging open trying to capture shallow gasps of air as he hung, sweat dripping from his forehead against the bathroom wall.

To: Sherlock; Found John pleasuring himself in the bathroom. Can I assist, brother mine? John's concerned about his loyalties. -M

It took less than a few seconds for Sherlock to reply, his snark easily readable for Mycroft who had suffered through his tantrums several times. He was proud to note he couldn't find any jealousy - simply annoyance at being bother over such a trivial subject - one they had already discussed.

To: Mycroft; Please do. I've already told you to fuck him. Stop bothering me. p.s. John Just enjoy the good fuck, please. -SH

He slipped his phone around letting John read the message himself. To his surprise John groaned, deeply, thrusting back, his arse rubbing against Mycroft's thin black slacks. His pale grey tie was already loosened and his under shirts sleeves were rolled up from earlier in the night. He rutted against John, his hand still tightly keeping John from release, as he let his own arousal stiffen. John moaned loudly, pornographically, Mycroft's mind supplied, as if his entire life depended on this hand job.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> smut. just wonderful johncroft smut courtesy of sherlock

Deep warmth wells up inside of him at the sight of Sherlock’s utterance of permission, something that up until this very moment he had refused to take for granted. His brother was a fickle creature, one of dark delights and violent action. It’s unlike Mycroft to second guess himself but this is out of his realm of cognizance. There are too many variables and unknown dependents working through his mind — too much he doesn’t know about John and too little time to compute each detail. Long fingers are wrapped around the phone delicately, the screen gleefully placed in John’s line of sight where he can see the response as well. The boys mouth is half open, hot breath blowing out against the cool tile of the wall, perspiration beginning to build, droplets reaching their peak size before dripping down the wall, leaving only residual trails behind. Mycroft’s flush against John’s body, leg pressed in between his thighs, riding upwards as he ruts against him, his own cock throbbing with arousal. The words of the phone are bright against the shadowed wall where they both seem to be caught in a standstill, bending forward slightly, bodies tense and needy against one another.

( sms received | sherlock ) Please do. I’ve already told you to fuck him. Stop bothering me. P.s. John, just enjoy the bloody fuck, please. – SH

Mycroft’s left hand has yet to let go of John’s cock, fingers squeezing unforgivingly on the base of the shaft, effectively holding his arousal back with a makeshift cock ring. Long fingers slide into his trouser pocket, letting the mobile fall down into place, forgotten and unneeded now. This was no longer a battle, or a debate, this was two men in need of release and one manipulative enough of them to ensure its completion. Air fills his lungs rapidly and without intent, John’s urgent groan and backwards thrusting take his breath for a split second before he regains himself. His arse rubs against Mycroft’s thin black slacks and he can do nothing but break into a rutting rhythm. His pale grey tie is screaming to be loosened and his sleeves while rolled up are setting him on fire, his fervor turning up his internal heat. He doesn’t stop, rubbing against John, left hand still locked in place around John’s cock, until he could feel the stickiness of pre-cum leaking from his nearly too-stiff cock. John’s mouth was clamped down on his hand, sounds weakened by the barrier, but all too clear for Mycroft. Each vibration sends shockwaves through him.

His last encounter of a sexual nature had been years ago, when Sherlock had first started experimenting. Both were exceptional late bloomers, neither finding the calling of arousal until adulthood had already happened upon them. He had awoken from a wet dream, cock hard and leaking to find his brother, supple ass already opened from a night of foreplay in his room, no doubt, slicking his arse with lube before sliding down over him as if he had been fucked for years. He had been 18 and a few weeks from university move-in. Mycroft was 25 and barely experienced himself — perhaps he was a sick fuck, he knew it he was the moment he didn’t throw the boy off but instead allowed him to progress, his own need for experimentation pushing him. They had shagged each other until Mycroft was sure Sherlock’s arse would bleed and his own cock would put out of commission from the chafing and overuse. Still yet, Sherlock had been unsatisfied, sneaking in after dinner to shove his still hard prick down Mycroft’s throat, pinning him like a whore underneath as he came down his throat. Coughing and spluttering as he choked Mycroft had never felt so alive.

Mycroft felts as wanton as john looked. Finally releasing his cock as he turned him around, watching as John panted, a bit of saliva coating his bottom lip as he tried to catch his breath, mind fogged by his need for release. He pulled him forward, sucking on his bottom lip as he explored John’s body, hands ghosting over every part of him as he started to divest the other’s clothing. Sweater, discarded and properly thrown on to the counter, his admires John’s bare skin, excited at his lack of undershirt. Lips pause over his neck sucking hard.

A knock sounds and Mycroft is sure his heart is in his throat, as is John’s as he tries to flee, brought back to Earth unceremoniously by the interruption. The voice grates on his nerves as it speaks the owner obvious to Mycroft.  “Hurry the fuck up, I’ve got to piss!” His teeth dig into John’s skin in frustration, enjoying the pained grunt that John gives trying to push him off instantly.

“There are other bathrooms, you insolent piece of shit! If you don’t want everyone to know you’ve fucked you Cousin Marilyn, you will leave now!” Mycroft’s voice rips through the air, a whip cracked invisibly through the air, electrifying both John and the man outside. He can hear the man scurrying away, a scared rat unworthy of second thoughts. John presses harder into Mycroft’s space, trying hard to fill the same physical space as much as possible.  “That was so fucking hot, how’d you do that? “

Mycroft takes the praise as permission, regardless of what it really is and moves onward, long fingers sliding down John’s trousers, deftly unbuttoned and rest on his buttocks, pulling his cock flush against Mycroft’s own as he squeezes the plump flesh.  A single digit curiously pressing at the puckered hole and he’s unsurprised to find John’s reluctance and sudden tense muscles. He refuses to waste his time trying to make John relax, instead feeding on his need for danger and his own professional ability to manipulate the mental weaker of his species. He begins to talk, “I am a dangerous man, John. I work in the government, I know too many things. I know all about you, everything.”

He pushes in and lets out a satisfied groan as he makes it past the muscle and slides inside, pulling out before rapidly wetting his hand with John’s own saliva, dipping his fingers in and out, deep then shallow. John nearly loses himself over that but Mycroft makes sure to squeeze his base again, keeping him controlled. It isn’t hard to get the lube from his jacket pocket, as it’s been planted there long before he ever left his home. It adds another layer of slickness to John’s already leaking cock and arse, the liquids running down into the cleft. As he starts the seconds he speaks up again, preening as John begins to press backwards against him, wanting more. “I know that you’re too loyal and you enjoy fucking yourself at night with an over-sized dildo and that you like bending your will to your partner, and” he adds the third rather harshly, enjoying the pained groan it causes, “that outside the bedroom, you pretend to be in control but sometimes you wear a plug just to make yourself feel used.”

John was still, Mycroft’s mind supplying him with the description of ‘shock’, but he found he didn’t care, moving to set himself on the counter, cock out, and trousers lowered, jerking John towards him, and lifting him up enough to position his cock, his toes barely touching the floor, as Mycroft impaled him. John’s intake of breath was loud, satisfying and nearly overwhelming. Mycroft felt powerful, dominant and as if he owned the other.

“H-how did you know that?” John chokes out, trying his hardest to find traction on the floor, his ankles trapped in the puddle of trousers at his feet, and his pants only down enough to offer Mycroft an opening, one that he has currently filled to the hilt. Mycroft’s hands are holding his neck now, keeping his airflow restricted, for all intents and purposes choking him quiet realistically. Bruises are imminent.

“It’s written all over you John, how could I not? Lube stains on your ass, easy to open your arse, not like a virgin. You’re body basically begged me to fill it.” He sucked on John’s earlobe before whispering breathy and guttural into his ear, “It’s obvious you’re not cheating, so you’re obviously pleasuring yourself, probably in the shower, since you have flat mates.”

John flexed his toes, trying to take Mycroft deeper, panting as Mycroft angled up to his prostate. “I know you have a danger kink and the moment you felt my erection against your back, you wanted me, even before you knew who I was. You wanted a stranger to abuse you, fuck you and leave you full of their cum. Danger turns you on. Slut. “

Fingers relax as John begins to crumple, consciousness fading from lack of air supply. He turns his attentions to John’s neglected penis, taking it and stroking it firmly as John comes back, gasping and hard from adrenaline. “Come for me, John. Come for me, or I’ll take you in a most painful way in the future. I’ll make sure you beg and bleed and you suffer — cum.”

The light headedness gave John the finally kick he needed, coming hard, shooting in ribboned spurts out on the floor, his muscles clenching around Mycroft who leaned forward, allowing his toes to finally hit the floor, biting John’s neck hard enough to taste the iron doused blood welling up underneath his canines. “OH, gods yes.” Mycroft let himself go as the muscles enveloped him, pulling every last ounce of semen from him.

Mycroft gave John a small shove, letting him fall ( softly ) to the floor, his body boneless. He ignored the crumpled mess in the floor, satisfied with John laying in his own cum, blissfully unaware and letting it smear against his tanned skin. Instead he wipes himself clean, making sure to make himself immaculate before turning back to John staring up at him in wonder and sudden fear. It made him heady with enjoyment.

“I take it you enjoyed yourself, John? I do hope I didn’t hurt you. I merely. . . wanted to utilize your kink.” He was straightening his tie, caught off guard by John’s sudden movements, out of the floor and against him in a flash. His lips crash against Mycroft’s, sucking in his bottom lip and biting it hard, causing Mycroft’s cock to attempt to harden again. John pulled away, cheeks flush, his post orgasmic high obvious as he fixed his clothes ungracefully, looking for all the world like he’d just had a quick fuck. “I can’t wait until next time, Mr. Holmes.”

He watched as he left, stewing in contempt at the title but rather surprised at John’s enthusiasm. If was completely honest with himself he had expected the boy to run away as soon as they finished, or accuse him of rape. His eyes drift back towards the floor, the cum sprayed across the floor reminding him of his own remnants inside John’s lovely arse. He needed to invest in his own personal chastity plug for John, a way to keep his seed from leaving unless he wanted it to. He was going to make sure his cum stayed inside of him; especially to remind him that he was as much Sherlock’s as his now.


	8. Curiosity Killed ...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John needs answers. Did Sherlock really trick Victor into cheating on Mycroft just so John could get fucked. What’s really going on here?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been 2.5 years since I wrote the beginning of this fanfiction. With all due respect I hope I’ve grown somewhat as a writer. After rereading the chapters I wanted to add on to this. Johncroft is a sorely underappreciated ship in need of several more fan fictions. I wrote this chapter twice :( so hopefully this is as good as the first time.... Chrome deleted my entire document !!! the first go around.

Sherlock isn’t surprised to see John limping. If anything he’s rather pleased at how little he seems to be affected. There’s something tantalizing about how much practice John must have put in to be so … capable. He sits catlike, perched on the cement near John’s apartment. Long limbs soak up the sunlight, much like a cat bathing in the window sill, he draws the attention of those passing by. Sherlock is well aware of his labels, twink, slut, whore. They refuse to admit perhaps their taunts come from jealousy. It’s not hard to pinpoint which males are using slurs to cover up their own attractions to him.

Dirty blonde hair catches his attention, the tan skin honeyed by the sun comes next. John is a delight to all that are blessed enough to lay eyes on him. He’s fit, humble, and most of all, loyal. A trait that seems to be less and less common among their peers. Of course Sherlock can appreciate the irony that he asks John for purity in their relationship while he more or less ignores the sentiment of monogamy.

He only briefly glances at John as he comes to stand beside him, offering him only the barest of attention. He already sees everything he needs to know, why dwell by staring holes into the other. Sherlock can sense John’s discomfort. The slope of his shoulders gives away his inner dialogue. The younger holmes doesn’t burden himself with saying hello, deciding instead to recite the periodic table silently out of boredom while John works up the courage to say the obvious.

“I slept with my Mycroft.”

The words are a smidgen louder than a whisper, almost conspiratorial. Sherlock rolls his eyes at the predictability of it.

“I know.” _Obviously, I remember the text I sent._

“I regret it, Sherlock.”

If he had turned any faster to study the blonde he might have suffered whiplash. Green eyes search out blue ones through the mop of black curls now hanging haphazardly over his brows.  Confusion sets in and Sherlock’s urge for information overtakes him.

_He enjoyed himself, his body language seems fine - a bit uptight but nothing untoward, there’s a hard edge to jaw but Mycroft didn’t hurt him, why is he mad?_

Deductions race through his mind, John suddenly much more interesting than he was seconds ago. John cuts his thoughts off prematurely answering before Sherlock can figure it out for himself.

“You lied to Trevor. You manipulated your brother into fucking me.”

It’s a calculated sentence. John knows Sherlock will come clean if he thinks the cats out of the bag. He also knows that if Sherlock, for one second, thinks John’s bluffing he’ll lie through his teeth at this point - if the web he’s unraveling stays true. John can’t be sure which reaction he wants but judging from cold expression adorning Sherlock’s face he knows which one he’s getting.

“ _Victor_ was bad for Mycroft.”

It’s neither an admittance or denial but Sherlock’s venom cements John’s worst fears.

“And what are you? A saint?”

“I got rid of a obstacle, John. **You** would never have fixed things for yourself. I did this for us, _for you_. Mycroft wanted you the moment he saw you. I only took away the barrier.”

Sherlocks expression goes neutral again. He’s standing now, one arm flicks outward in irritation as he waves away John’s words as if they were gnats. The bigger picture has always been Sherlock’s goal, regardless of those who suffer injury.

“You lied so I could fuck someone, Sherlock? Are you that sick of a bastard, that you don’t understand how wrong that is? Mycroft doesn't even know the truth!”

John squares his shoulders, anger piloting his body, each word out of Sherlock’s mouth is another nail in their relationships coffin. He can barely fathom that yesterday he had wanted to marry him and now he was contemplating if anything he had said was truthful.

There’s a moment of calm before the storm comes to life, Sherlock’s cold, emotionless voice a sharp contrast to the one he had used so often in John’s company.

“I didn't lie so you could fuck him, I lied so I could fuck him!”

The words cut John deep. He physical steps back from the blow. John wants to ask, _Why Victor and not me?_ But the words won’t come out. His mind supplies him with the word, Shock. He can’t seem to move, or yell, or breath.

“Wait, what?” John cocks his head to the side, his full undivided attention focused in full on making sure he heard what Sherlock said. “You - you said you didn’t like sex.” Each word is spat with an intensity John didn’t know he could muster. Feelings of betrayal wrap around his chest, crushing his lungs.

Sherlock guffawed at the notion. He was sick of playing games. He brushed off John’s surprise as tendious and expected. Something he had been working to avoid for some time now.

“I said I didn’t like sex with you.”

John swallowed, hard, eyes suddenly moist from outrage and embarrassment. How long had Sherlock pretended to be content with someone he wasn’t attracted to. His mind was swimming. _He was just another failed experiment. Just like Victor. Wind up the boy from an alcoholic home and abusive background, give him some love and watch his dance until he falls_. He can’t stand this any longer.

“You’re an arse.”

Blue eyes are electric, salt filled tear ducts sting as he wills the emotion to go away. He turns his back to Sherlock, trying to salvage whatever dignity he might have left.

“And you’re being unreasonable. I think we should take a break, John. Until you can get past this pettiness. I was always honest with you.”

John swallows down his anger, fights with himself as he squares his shoulders, desperately trying to shield himself from Sherlock’s manipulations. John knows better. Sherlock always claimed he hates sex in all its forms. He chokes back bile that threatens to make his vomit, his stomach sick as he imagines Sherlock fucking Victor or some other faceless entity while John sits at home like a good housewife - chastity belt and all.

“What makes you think I’ll come back at all.”

Back still to Sherlock, he waits. Ready to walk away at any minute from what was his entire world.

“You always come back, John. It’s what your kind do.”

Sherlock smirks as he speaks, evident in the way his voice carries. _Your kind?_ Is he a dog now. Is he so desensitized to humanity that he merely sees him as completely alien? He chokes back the frustration, the underlying jab that John is just **mediocre** , not even worth one fuck. John can’t hear if he says anything else, the blood rushing through his ears blocks out anything else.

“FUCK OFF!”

John moves in an instant, years of fighting back in an abusive household have taught him something useful it seems. He slides past Sherlock’s weak defense maneuver and blacks his eye. Aware that he’s split his own knuckle in the process. He crumbles, weak and defenseless, John wants to finish him off. Bare hands clench and unclench, wishing to be wrapped around Sherlock’s delicate neck. He curses again, aware of the eyes and ears that have followed their conversation.

He thinks himself lucky that most of their intimate details were said in lower voices but he can’t help but try to capture the image of Sherlock Holmes bleeding and shocked on the hard concrete before him. John throws up his arms in frustration, his mind blank from anger.

“Aren’t you going to help me up, John. People are watching.”

Sherlock stares at him, almost pleading. As if, for once, the great Sherlock Holmes has been touched by the human emotion of embarrassment - or is it peer isolation? Has John really been the only thing holding him back from being an outcast completely?

He ignores the hand outstretched towards him, heading past him and towards the school.

“Help yourself, that’s what you’re good at.”

**Author's Note:**

> Amour et Cafe; Love and Coffee.  
> surreptitiously; secretly, underhandedly.


End file.
